Chapter 8: What Marcus Did Next
He listened.
He didn't interrupt.
He didn't stand up.
He sat with his elbows on the table and his hands clasped in front of him, and he listened to everything Lauren said about the watch.
When she finished, he was quiet for a long time.
Then he said:
"That watch was the last thing my grandfather left me."
"I know," Lauren said.
"I used to take it out and hold it.
When things were hard.
I didn't wear it because I was afraid of losing it." He paused.
"I hadn't checked on it in a while.
I didn't think I needed to."
Lauren had both hands pressed flat on the table.
"I'm sorry, Marcus.
I know that doesn't—"
"Stop saying you're sorry," he said.
Not harshly.
Just firmly.
"You've said it four times tonight and I need you to stop because right now it doesn't mean anything to me.
What means something is what you do next."
She nodded.
"I want the watch found," he said.
"I don't care what it costs.
I don't care how long it takes.
You find out where you sold it, you contact them, and you get it back.
That is not negotiable."
"Okay," she said.
"And the $5,000 to my mother.
Ninety days.
I'll take on extra work if I have to."
"I'll get a second job," Lauren said.
"I mean it.
I'll do whatever it takes."
He looked at her.
"I believe that you believe that."
It wasn't forgiveness.
But it wasn't the end either.
It was something harder and more honest than both.
My mom set her mug down softly.
"Marcus," she said.
"I want to say something."
He looked at her.
"I'm not angry at Lauren," she said.
"I was hurt.
I won't pretend I wasn't.
But I've been sitting here tonight watching her and I think she's been carrying something very heavy for a very long time, mostly alone, and she handled it badly, but I understand being afraid and making wrong choices because of it." She looked at Lauren.
"That doesn't excuse what happened.
But it explains some of it."
Lauren pressed her lips together hard.
"You're a kinder woman than I deserve," she said.
"Probably," my mom said simply.
"But that's my choice to make."
I stood up and started clearing the mugs.
It was nearly eleven.
The evening had lasted three hours and felt like a week.
My brother came and stood beside me at the sink.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
"For doing this.
For finding David.
For not letting it go."
"She's our mom," I said.
"I know." He picked up a dish towel.
"I should have been paying more attention."
"You didn't know."
"I know that.
I still should have been paying more attention."
We stood there washing up while Lauren and my mom sat at the table behind us.
I could hear them talking — low, careful, the way two people talk when they're trying to find the first solid ground after a long fall.
It wasn't fixed.
Not even close.
But something had shifted.
The hiding was over.
The money would be paid back.
The watch would be found or replaced.
And my mom — my seventy-year-old, widowed, too-kind mother — would get a new refrigerator before the week was out.
I dried my hands on the dish towel and looked out the window above the sink into the dark backyard.
I thought about Lauren's face when she first saw David sit down at the table.
That draining of color.
The moment she understood that the thing she'd buried had been found.
May you like
I didn't feel triumphant.
I felt tired, and relieved, and fiercely glad I hadn't let it go.
